that's mrs. mediocrity to you

.

.

something to be said

for the way moonlight and subterfuge
carry on in dark corners
building secrets and sanity
from promise and pause
.
white lace curtain call
for dancing midnight siren
bell-lipped enchantress

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

scintilla

the way you
trace a pattern
on my
silent
electric
sea

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

redemption

there’s a scar on the sky
and dawn gasps for air

the tree is broken

a bee hovers

bits of lace and ribbon
drift slowly back to rest

on a raspberry horizon

gilded decoration

for a dancing
thieving

crow

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

wisdom

never comes the way you think it will, never through planned lessons, marked milestones, expected losses. it slaps you in the face in the guise of moon at midnight, vines itself round your ankle in the garden at dawn, stabs you in the heart at noon and rips away forever. silence is the absence of sound, and i haven’t heard the robins in such a long time.

the trees are tracing pattern
on a fake pearl grey of sky
and i am racing forward

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

(in)
digestion

when the
world is so
unpalatable

.

some days
you can only
stomach
dessert

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

on lilac buds
and scattered leaves

in the garden
there’s a metaphor
for everything

today i see
new growth

the cycle of decay

a patchwork
of green promises

i see the backache required
to corral tomorrow

i feel the sun
on the lines of my face

i hold the love
the toil
the acceptance
in the palm
of gnarled hand

i control nothing

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

a bed of frost

and a moment of calm
pull me deep
into a center
swirled with doubt

this is my cage
hung with beads
and sparkly bits
and holding me
camouflage
captive

while these
angst-coated questions
beat their tin-cup music
on pretty bars
and purple painted
barricade

.

. . . . .

.

.

de

(con)struction

is the shape of flame

roaring consummation
in the face of absolution

exposing spire
and ancient skeleton

burning history
back
to blood-soaked
prayer-lipped
earth

and
mortality’s
imminent
stain

.

. . . . .

.

for Notre Dame

.

.

crescent

i am howl-edged
and harp-hounded

running miracles
through tattered
branch-armed
paths
in the darkness

of sanity’s

lair

.

. . . . .

.

.

body & soul

and the inevitable

push

pull

of attempting
to define
either

one

.

. . . . .